


Maglor's Homecoming

by KayleeArafinwiel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Maglor in Modern Day, Mythology References, Selkies, merfolk exist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24897340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayleeArafinwiel/pseuds/KayleeArafinwiel
Summary: Somewhere in the modern world, a wanderer long lost has a restless night.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	1. Skin and Other Stories

The clock chimed midnight. "Why can't I sleep?" he wondered, turning again and giving the pillow a sharp smack. The plaintive meowing of a kitten brought him fully forth from his lost dreams, and he rose from his bed, pale skin bathed with moonlight.  
  
Donning a silken robe, he walked through the front door of the cottage which had been home to him for several years now, and listened.  
  
 _Mew!_  
  
There it was again. He moved on silent, bare feet over the cool grass, then knelt and peered under the hedge. A ginger kitten he knew very well peeked back out at him.  
  
“So there you are, Russandol,” he whispered, and his grey eyes shone in amusement. “You thought you would escape me, but I know you far better.” He went after his recalcitrant pet, trying to catch the kitten he had named for a dear one lost to him.  
  
 _Meow!_  
  
Russandol seemed to object, for he struggled out from under the hedge on three sound legs. The amputated one hindered him but little, and he waved his tail imperiously. When Russandol’s master attempted to pick the kitten up, he got scratched for his trouble, ancient scars opening with fresh blood.  
  
Blood, he thought, and the coppery tang sent him to another time and place, before a Sun, before a Moon, where the stars piercing the salt air had once sung in joy, until their peace was ruined by the clang of swords…  
It came to him, then, as Russandol launched himself imperiously into the wounded Elf’s arms, and began licking at his marred skin.  
  
 _Alqualondë_.  
  
No wonder he could not sleep. It had been tonight.  
  
This was not Alqualondë, or even Sirion, he thought sourly. But the salt air, the iron-rich blood on his hands, told his memory otherwise. The story of his greatest sin was written on his skin for all to see. When he was finally drawn from his trance, the position of Ithil and the wheeling stars above had shifted, telling him it was long past midnight now.  
  
“Come, Russandol,” he who was once Maglor, son of Fëanor, sighed in resignation. “I will have no peace this night.” Perhaps he should just let the Sea claim him, as it had claimed his Silmaril, he thought, scooping up the kitten and carrying him. It would take time to walk to the shore, but he did not mind the dark...  
  
 _Mew!_  
  
Russandol jumped down, and loped beside Maglor as the two finally went down to the beach. But as Maglor stepped into the surf, Russandol followed, wheeling about to plant himself in front of the Elf.  
  
 _Meow!_  
  
Maglor stared in consternation down at the kitten. “Russandol…” He stared, and then looked at his bloodied hand. In the slowly lightening sky, Eärendil’s Star blazed, and he looked up at the long-lost Silmaril in studied silence. His wounded hand prickled – and not just from Russandol’s scratches.  
  
He did _not_ want to die. More to the point, _Russandol_ did not want him to die, he thought. He gathered up the wet kitten, and took a few steps back from the lapping waves, steeling his nerve, thinking of all the Aftercomers he had called friend. Some were of his foster-sons’ joined line, long removed, he thought. The thought of Elrond still haunted him. _Elrond_ would not want him to die.  
  
Yet, did he not _deserve_ death?  
  
The words of his Oath still burned after well over five Ages, and years beyond count in the eyes of Mortals.  
He remembered them clearly, seared into memory:  
  
 _"Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean,  
brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,  
Elda or Maia or Aftercomer,  
Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth,  
neither law, nor love, nor league of swords,  
dread nor danger, not Doom itself,  
shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin,  
whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh,  
finding keepeth or afar casteth  
a Silmaril. This swear we all:  
death we will deal him ere Day's ending,  
woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou,  
Eru Allfather! To the everlasting  
Darkness doom us if our deed faileth.  
On the holy mountain hear in witness  
and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!"*_  
  
What, then, could he do?  
  
There was only one thing that could be done, he thought, as his scratched hand, and the burn of old, continued to prickle at him.  
  
Dropping Russandol on the sand, he knelt, facing West into the waves, where the last of Isil’s light had vanished, and raised his hands toward the fading light of Eärendil’s Star.  
  
 _“I, Macalaurë Fëanárion, confess to you who sit upon the thrones of the West and to the One who is above all thrones, that I have sinned in deed and in word most grievously in what I have done and what I have failed to do. I hereby solemnly and of my free will renounce all claims to this or any other Silmaril for all the ages of Arda that may remain and beyond. I humbly ask for your forgiveness and accept whatever punishment is my due for my crimes.”**_  
  
The Star of Hope blazed incandescent for a moment, outshining even the rising Anar, and Maglor gasped. Russandol jumped, tumbling into the sand in a disgruntled fashion, waving his missing paw about.  
When the light died…Maglor’s pain was gone.  
  
Hope dawned for the last son of Fëanor, and he cried aloud for joy.  
  
Russandol purred, and Maglor smiled upon him.  
  
“Come, Nelyo,” he said softly, using his elder brother's nickname of old. “Let’s go home.” He swept Russandol into his arms. Home. Perhaps, someday, he would go home in truth. But for now, his estel had been restored.  
  
It was enough.  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Njord the hermit dwells in what he still calls the Northern Isles, where Scots and "Viking" culture are still somewhat blended. Shetland, Orkney - he can't keep up with the locals and doesn't much want to. But a meeting in the woods near the shore ensures his past catches up with him.

The fire was dying.

Red flames licked at the embers, glowing coals and debris all that was left. Njord stared, eyes reflecting the red of the flames, as he crouched catlike beside the former bonfire, recalling blazing infernos he had seen countless times before.

It would be so easy. He always thought so whenever he saw a house fire, a forest fire. Walk forward. Jump in. But no, if he was going to do that, he ought to have built this larger.

Instead he just sat and watched, remembering, wondering what it would have felt like to be so consumed. Destroyed, like his brothers.

If he closed his eyes he could imagine their faces, framed by red hair, his elder brother's braids militarily immaculate, the twins' disheveled. 

He could still hear his brothers' screams as the fire consumed them, as it had consumed their father. There had been nothing left to bury.

Losgar. He shivered. 

Something nosed at his scarred hand. At first he thought it was Russandol, his three-pawed feline companion. But no, Russandol was further down the sandy beach, watching the waves lap the shore. He looked down.

A grey fox had come down out of the woods, silver eyes staring into his own grey eyes.

Njord - Maglor, he felt like Maglor still when these thoughts came - looked at Russandol, who meowed and moved around the dying embers with care, waving his orange tail. Cat and fox greeted each other with caution, then lay down, content to share the warmth.

Sighing, the last remaining Son of Fëanor stirred the embers and then sought his bedroll. It was late.

Maglor, son of Fëanor, stayed rolled in his blankets near the warmth of the fire, as the waves lapped further down the sand and the gulls called overhead. His dreams were haunted by cries in the woods - he could not help but remember imagining twin pairs of tear-filled grey eyes as he and Maedhros had attempted to amend their younger brother's actions, all to no avail. 

Suddenly he came awake under the ruddy gold light of rising Anor, realizing that the cries were not just figments of his haunted dreams. He sat up, casting away the thin blankets coated with sand, and ran for the nearby woods, Russandol at his heels.

The silver fox came too, flicking an ear and swishing his tail as though to say well, finally! 

"Well, I'm sorry Your Majesty, but I don't speak fox. Sorry I'm not Tyelco," Maglor muttered in answer to the beast's impatient yelp. Nevertheless, he let the fox take the lead, following him to the roots of a great, gnarled oak tree, clinging to its last autumn leaves, where in a bole between two roots, a small child with long dark hair sat crying, wrapped in what appeared to be a fur-lined coat against the cold.

Elros! Maglor thought for a panicked moment, then rolled his eyes. Don't be an idiot. Elros is long dead. He knelt and looked at the boy nevertheless, reaching out a callused fingertip to stroke the child's long tresses.

Russandol jumped into the child's lap and meowed. This garnered some interest, and the little one's tears slowed. Maglor got an impression of bright green eyes, wet with tears, before the child looked back to Russandol.

"Why are you crying, little one?" Maglor asked softly.

"M'lost," came the tearful answer.

"Ah, I see. Yes, that would be frightening. What is your name?" Maglor asked kindly.

"Alvilda," came the reply. A girl, then, he thought. "I want to go home," Alvilda continued, sniffling.

"I understand how that feels," Maglor said softly. "My name is Njord," he added, and at the child's sharp gasp he laughed. "Not the Njord of course," he added, shaking his head.

Alvilda didn't look as though she entirely believed that. "You're pretty, Njord," she said, almost accusingly. 

"Well, thank you. May I pick you up, Alvilda? It will be easier to get you home if I carry you out of the woods." He wasn't quite sure where she had come from, but there was only one nearby village in this area, so he would have to guess from there.

Clutching her coat, Alvilda nodded. "You may pick me up," she allowed.

Maglor knelt and lifted Alvilda, standing with her in his arms. "How long have you been lost?" he asked as he walked with the child.

"Since it last stormed," she said tearfully, rubbing the fur lining of her coat over a scar on her cheek.

"Where did you get that, child?" Maglor stopped. The scar looked fresh. If she had run away from home because she'd been hurt, he couldn't take her back there.

"I got hurt in the storm when me and Mama and Papa were on our way home to our village." Alvilda snuggled deeper into the layer of fur, shivering. "You're going the wrong way."

Maglor paused. They'd just left the woods and got on the path to the village. "Am I?" he asked, frowning. "This is the only village around here that I know of."

"That's 'cause you don't know things," she said scornfully. "I thought you said was Njord."

"I said I wasn't the Njord," Maglor reminded her.

"Should still know things," Alvilda replied imperiously. 

Maglor sighed. "If you would stop speaking in riddles then perhaps I would do better."  
Alvilda sighed in annoyance. "That way," she pointed, and he looked toward the low wall separating the path from the edge of the sea cliffs. A little ways down the path, there was a gate, and a curving natural staircase that led back down to the beach.

Sighing, Maglor followed the girl's directions, and carried her back down to the sand, Russandol following. A stream ran down from the woods nearby, tumbling over the rocks of the cliff in a spray of running water before spilling over the sands and meeting the Sea.

Here, Maglor found some rubbish left behind - a pair of broken glasses he kicked out of the way, and bits of barbed wire, broken from the top of the wall, no doubt. The wind had picked up, and a scrap of blue fabric was whirled through the air as storms began to threaten once more.

A golden-brown seal, sleek with dripping water, was waiting on the rocks near where the stream met the waves. 

"Down," Alvilda demanded.

Frowning, Maglor put the child down, and she ran for the seal, her fur-lined coat flying out behind her otherwise naked form as she threw her arms around it. 

"Mor!"

The seal shimmered with a golden light, and Maglor stood, awed, as the seal's shape lengthened. Standing there was a woman with long, flowing dark hair, eyes green as the sea, her sealskin cloak hanging from her shoulders and wrapped about her as she clasped the child to her.

"Mor is here, my treasure," she whispered. "Come, it is time to go home."

"Mor, Njord needs to go home too," Alvilda said plaintively.

"Do you wish to go home, Maglor Feanorion?" 

Maglor drew in a sharp breath. "That is a name you were not given, my lady," he replied carefully, eyeing the seal-woman with trepidation.

"Oh, but I was," She laughed softly. "Do you think my Lord does not remember you, even after all this time, son of Fëanor?"

"Ah." Maglor shifted uncomfortably. "I had not thought....that is, I believed the way closed."

"And so it is," she replied, "but for you, a road to the West lies open...if you dare to pass through the country of the Land-under-Waves. A sealskin will be granted to you, and to your...friend," she glanced at the three-pawed Russandol, frolicking at the edge of the water, "if you wish to try."

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: PG for (non-violent) wounding and vague mention of past violence  
> Theme: Animal Friends  
> Elements: The clock chimed midnight. "Why can't I sleep?" he wondered, turning again and giving the pillow a sharp smack.  
> Author's Notes: The title is taken from B2MEM 2012.  
> Summary: Somewhere in the modern world, a wanderer long lost has a restless night.  
> Word Count: 946, not including header
> 
> *Maglor’s Oath is the Oath of Fëanor, as given in Morgoth’s Ring, volume 10 of The History of Middle-Earth.  
> **Maglor’s Renunciation is quoted from ch. 34 of “The Journey Home”, by Fiondil, my atto indonyo.


End file.
